In the Garden of the March Hare
by tigerkity
Summary: It’s a proven psychological phenomenon that the brain, when provided enough stimulus or trauma, will create or take its owner to a period of lesser turbulence to protect the psyche. Slight Shassy slash, or not, depending on your imagination.


**Title: **In the Garden of the March Hare

**Author: **Tigerkity

**Fandom: **Psych

**Pairing/Characters:** Carlton Lassiter

**Rating/Category: **PG-13 for mild violence/ Gen or pre-Slash depending on your imagination

**Prompt:** Tea Party

**Word Count:** 1,935

**Summary: **It's a proven psychological phenomenon that the brain, when provided enough stimulus or trauma, will create or take its owner to a period of lesser turbulence to protect the psyche.

**Notes: **Set probably sometime before the events of 'Poker? I Barely Know Her' just because I didn't want the bad guys to know where Lassy lived and then cause him to have to move _again_. Written for smallfandomfest over on LJ.

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It's a proven psychological phenomenon that the brain, when provided enough stimulus or trauma, will create or take its owner to a period of lesser turbulence to protect the psyche. Detective Carlton Lassiter knew this, so he wasn't too surprised when his mind finally gave up on the present and sought comfort, took refuge, in the past.

It had been a stupid mistake, hindsight being twenty-twenty. He had foolishly let his guard down after a long 2 days and nights on stakeout at the old Del Vega Inn, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jorge Klaus and his American partner Donny Oswald. They were both wanted for a slew of contract killings across the state, three in particular in Santa Barbara. Lassiter had almost given up after the trail of evidence leading to the Inn dried up. The Chief was considering calling in Spencer, and if that wasn't a slap in the face, Lassiter almost- almost was still a long way away from saying yes- agreed. He was hyped up on caffeine, sugar, and bad Mexican take out from Jose Jalapeno across the street and was ready to collapse on his bed and sleep for a whole day, not that he'd even be able to considering he was going back in to the station the next day bright and early.

He had shuffled from his car to the front door of his house and because of his exhaustion, which was no excuse, he hadn't been as aware of his surroundings as he should have been. It was a rookie mistake to not see the man crouched behind the railing on the porch or the other one hiding behind his bushes, and he was lucky that he hadn't been flat out murdered… yet.

It was way too easy for them to take him down, and Lassiter made a mental note that once he got out of this he'd have to step up his workout regimen, spend more time at the gym. This couldn't happen again, not if he had any say in it, which he usually didn't but that didn't stop him from trying. He snorted at that and ending up coughing uncontrollably, choking a bit on the blood gushing from his lip and various other cuts across his face, remnants of their 'asking nicely' routine.

They had taken him to a small house in a low income neighborhood off of Calle Real and tied him, and handcuffed him, to a chair before proceeding with trying to find out exactly how much the police knew about them. And the part that Lassiter thought was ironically funny, which was probably only because there was a good chance that he had a concussion at the moment, was that while he had been on a round the clock stakeout for Klaus and Oswald, they had also been on stakeout themselves. Of a certain Head Detective's house.

Lassiter closed his eyes and tried to ignore the annoying high-pitched voice that was doing its best to intimidate him into answering questions. His head ached, his back ached, his side ached, his leg throbbed, _hell_ there wasn't a part of him that wasn't in pain. But pain didn't mean that he was scared, just more exhausted. His face must have been able to win first in a blue-berry impression contest; he was so sure that the entire thing was one big bruise from where they had hit him or used something to hit him with. They had punched and kicked his kidneys which, from experience, he knew was going to have him peeing red for a while. They had already broken a chair across his back from his first attempt to escape and had, as punishment, also broken his left leg. Lassiter, though in immense pain, was relieved. He knew that there were much worse things that they could have done to him to break him. He was a homicide detective and had been a cop for over 10 years. He had seen worse.

Another punch to the gut had him tugging against the restraints to curl in and protect himself. That's when he began to remember why he had become a cop: to stop this kind of cruelty, to catch the bad guys and put them in jail, to protect the public, to protect the innocents. People like Guster and Spencer, like Mr. Nagasaki down at the corner store, like Mrs. Bradshaw who fed the birds in the park where he ran, like Tommy who delivered his newspaper, like children. Like his niece. His mind finally decided to shelter him from the physical pain and find comfort in an old memory.

Victoria had always thought that he had never wanted children but she was wrong. He had always wanted kids, but when they were finally ready financially to start a real family he knew it was too late. He loved kids and that's why he had to say he didn't want to have any. He had seen the signs, knew what was happening and tried like hell to fix it, but there were some things that not even the great Carlton Lassiter could set right, not that he'd ever stop trying. Like his marriage. Within a couple years he was looking in the classifieds for a new home- no, a house- and stood in an empty room, all of his possessions in cardboard boxes and his personal life in shattered shambles around him. That's why he couldn't willingly bring a child into the world, into his world. It wouldn't be fair to it. It would be downright cruel, and despite what his wife thought, he cared too much to be responsible for that.

But, he had always wanted kids.

That's why he loved it when his sister and brother in-law went out of town. He loved it because that was when he became the caretaker of one Bailey McDonough his niece.

"Uncle Carly!"

"Yeah Bail?"

"Play tea party with me! Please…" she begged. She brought the full arsenal with her: the puppy dog eyes, the pouty lip, and the whole twisty thing she did with her hands. How was a grown man supposed to stand up to that?

"Sure thing pumpkin," The eight year old took him by the hand and dragged him up the stairs to her room where Carlton was overwhelmed by the sheer amount of stuffed animals she had seated around a small plastic lawn table set in the center. She let go with a squeal and ran to the table, suddenly stopping and landing on the floor with an audible thud.

"Sit here across from me," Bailey directed and he sat down, folding his legs and inevitably squashing a couple of teddy bears and a stuffed white rabbit which, thankfully, he got out from under him before she noticed. She was too intent on pouring imaginary tea into tiny cups and passing them to the crowd seated at the table. Once everyone was served, Lassiter couldn't help but smile at his niece's over the top decorum and manners which he knew would disappear the moment the tea party was over.

"Would you like some cream for your tea Miss-Your?" she asked, and he held back a chuckle as she leaned over the table to hand him a small pitcher.

"Yes please Madam," he replied.

"Sugar?" Once again, he said yes and she reached over to give it to him while he pretended to put some in his cup. Bailey, satisfied that everyone had everything to their liking, wove her tiny finger through the handle and lifted the cup to her mouth, taking an imaginary sip and smacking her lips. Carlton looked down at his cup and realized that he had a small problem, small being the operative word; so he pinched the cup between his two fingers and tried to act like it was the most normal thing in the world for a cop to be drinking from a pink cup that was about an inch and a half in diameter. He loved her so much and it was obvious that it made Bailey happy that he was sitting there with her, so that was all that mattered.

Then Bailey started up a conversation with her stuffed animals and Carlton had no idea what to do. He had a feeling that he should contribute something to the conversation, for Bailey, but when he opened his mouth to say something all that came out was,

"May I please have some more sugar?"

It ended up that that was all he said. Throughout the tea party he asked for sugar four times which only was added to by a polite request for more cream three times. However, that seemed enough for Bailey, which relieved him to no end.

Yup, it was for people like Bailey that he went to work everyday. That's why he endured endless shifts, know it all beat cops who thought they knew how to investigate a crime better than a Head Detective, breaking the bad news to families, horrible break-room coffee, back alley chases and stepping in things he'd rather not think about, and even getting kidnapped and beaten. To serve and protect, all in the name of justice.

Everyone gets what they deserve, what comes around goes around, well, he was what came around. He and the other men and women in blue. That's why he had hope that justice would prevail. Now, that didn't mean that he thought that bad things didn't happen to good people, after all that's how he made his living; all that meant was that, even if he did die strapped to a chair with a bruised and rapidly swelling face, there would be enough evidence left behind to put Klaus and Oswald away for a long time. Justice. His death would not be in vain.

He started laughing and decided to open his eyes again, as much as he could, time to come back to the present. He caught the startled look in Oswald's face; at least he had stopped talking now. A few more weak guffaws and his kidnappers recovered from their surprise and got back to business.

Just then the door exploded.

Cops in dark blue uniforms and black vests and face shields carried a battering ram into the room and quickly moved aside for more cops this time with weapons drawn as they stormed the room. They were all shouting so loud and Lassiter cringed at the sound as his head pounded out a tune that would leave Sammy Davis Jr. out of breath. Once SWAT cleared the small house and restrained Klaus and Oswald, he heard a voice that confused him. He shouldn't be here…

"LASSY!"

Spencer? He thought he said it, he really did, but in reality his voice failed him and refused to work. The fake psychic was at his side in no seconds flat, untying him and calling for an ambulance. O'Hara was only a few seconds behind him, but was now standing in front on him, staring.

"Jules! Go get a doctor," Shawn ordered, seeing her frozen. She reacted automatically and ran out to go find one of the paramedics waiting outside. Then Spencer turned his attention back to him, wiping some of the blood out of his eyes with a corner of his shirt.

"Aw, Lassy, why?"

Lassiter just turned his head to look at him with blurred vision.

"It's my job," he whispered weakly, feeling a relief that the cavalry had finally arrived, and in time. Shawn just let out a sound that sounded like a cross between a snort and a sob and lowered his head and softly shook it before looking the detective back in the eye.

Lassiter had a sudden impulse to ask Spencer if he liked tea.


End file.
